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<title>How's Your Love Life? by AnnaofAza</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28281360">How's Your Love Life?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza'>AnnaofAza</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bridget Jones (Movies), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bridget Jones's Baby Spoilers, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Post-Movie(s), Retrospective</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:49:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>996</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28281360</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It's the sort of thing she would have both raged about and made fun of and cried over with Jude and Shazzer and Tom: domesticity, wrapped in a nice little bundle.</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mark Darcy/Bridget Jones</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>How's Your Love Life?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeerjumper/gifts">reindeerjumper</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She props up her feet on the beat-up couch, duvet dragged over her lap, as William plays on his mat. It doesn't make sounds—she knows what a nightmare that can be—but he seems happy, picking up soft toys and babbling occasionally to himself, or even just lying on his tummy with a "philosopher's gaze," as Mark likes to joke.</p><p>"What if he's a barrister?" she asked. </p><p>"Begin the therapy," he dryly said. </p><p>Mark's cut down on work (some) since William. Bridget turns her gaze to the stove, where he's now making a late-night omelet with oozy cheese and bits and bobs of veggies. They need to go to the shop, she thinks, plugging a reminder into her phone. (While there, restock on chocolate ginger biscuits.)</p><p>He has an important human rights overseas trip in a month, and Bridget admits she <em>might </em>have mentioned it in a company memo on the pretense of <em>Someone else needs to cover this! Personal relationships with sources are a news no-no!</em> </p><p>She knows once Mark scarfs down his dinner—that he should have had hours ago—he'll wash up and spoon her on the couch. She loves to watch Mark, with his bumblebee socks and wooly sweater his mum made for him, sometimes with a crossword and a fountain pen—because, of course—pressed against his bottom lip in thought. Occasionally, he'll mutter a clue, and she'll smack the paper and let loose some trivia. (She's doing better during those stupid law posh law dinner quizzes, but it would be a while before her team takes the prize.)</p><p>And once William's down... well, that's their business. (Off record? Sometimes, it involves a barrister's robe.)</p><p>It's the sort of thing she would have both raged about and made fun of and cried over with Jude and Shazzer and Tom: domesticity, wrapped in a nice little bundle. Still, she knows enough, as any normal decent person would, not wave it around a neon flag—or worse, make overly explicit calls to family members at three in the morning. It's bad enough that Mum still does it right before Mark's trying to clean off William's spit-up off one of his nice suits and she's frantically yanking on her trousers one tangled leg at a time and the nursery's still half an hour away and Shazzer's trying to voice call her with the latest drama. </p><p>She really couldn't look her dad in the face after saying <em>I had a really, really good time last night, and it involved wine and a talk show and those odd little vintage dice... </em>She doesn't know how her mum does it. Maybe they like that. (Ew, Bridget. <em>Ew</em>.)</p><p>Unsolicited comments ought to carry a fine.  </p><p>Especially, <em>especially, </em>during her pregnancy, then the first few months. There were all kinds of right and wrong things to do with a baby, and everyone had an opinion and didn't mind telling her. It was wrong to have strangers criticize her breasts (in terms of feeding, this time) or vaccinations (Mark had launched into a fantastic rant with cited sources at the Tarts and Vicars party and it was one of the sexiest things she'd ever seen) or the best schools whose tuition cost more than her salary (<em>honestly</em>). Even Jack Qwant would drop in a <em>I know a fantastic little blender and storage set to make your own baby food </em>and he admitted he couldn't even take care of a plant without going to pieces.</p><p>William had his own opinions, and <em>those</em> were the ones that mattered. (And did he have them.)</p><p>And laundry! It never ended: dropping clothes and rags and sheets and everything else into the hamper (or the floor), finally taking some time to arrange them and plug in the proper washer settings, listen to the whirling and churning and swishing, then hauling damp bits of cloth out (or god forbid, quilts) and then finally leaving the clean pile on the couch until someone did something about it. </p><p>Mark actually <em>liked </em>folding and putting away things, as if he was achieving nirvana on some million-dollar yogi retreat. Perhaps you did achieve enlightenment, and she wasn't doing it right. There was probably a book about that, or at least a self-help web series. Conquering small tasks to conquering yourself. Something like that. (For the fifteenth time, she tries to remember where she put that Marie Kondo book Miranda had gotten her for Christmas.) </p><p>Sometimes, it was a blessing to step away and get to be worked up over deadlines and interviews and making things go off without a hitch. Sometimes, it was the hardest thing in the world. </p><p>But it works out. </p><p>Sometimes she looks in the mirror or her skirt pulls a certain way over her waist or some idiot makes a comment and she wonders if she should dust off that "Buns of Steel" compilation, or at least try going to the local gym. (Just not with Jack. He was a maniac. He liked to <em>jog in the morning.</em>) Sometimes Mark is wound up tight and forgets how time works and is an absolute arse and they have a fucking row right in the middle of Tesco's. Sometimes her mum is just too much or work has another table-flipping disaster or everyone starts dropping coy hints about having another baby (no) or she feels like a shit mum for having a glass of wine and having to pump and dump and give William a bottle, or God forbid, formula.</p><p>And sometimes, she feels really, really fucking lucky. </p><p>William looks at her with absolute trust that still makes her (and Mark) cry, rounding his mouth and mouthing nonsensical words and clenching his tiny baby fists. Her husband curls peacefully against her stomach with all the blankets pulled up to his chest, even when it's abominably hot, arm wrapped around her waist like he's afraid of letting her go. </p><p>And once in a while, a food is blue. </p>
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